"departures" poems
time is
the space in which we grow
without awareness
in our early years
structured by meals
arrivals and departures
light and dark
hot and cold
school studies play adventures
celebrations
and by waiting
anxiously or not
for things to happen
time is
that feeling
that we may not have enough of it
in our later years
busy with jobs and family and travel
covering long distances in order to
achieve and educate and care
time is
what starts to rush by us
with increasing speed
in our final years
making us wonder
what it really means
that space
by which we measure
our lives
our universes
our worlds
time is
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
Time apart makes all things
New - a nervousness
An excitement
Needy and naive
The memory of your touch
Fades - but not the intensity
Of my love
Checking like clockwork
The departures and arrivals
Heart thumping
My poor vision
A true handicap
Scanning the masses
For the most familiar face
In the world
Of whom I know
The span between my thumb and index
Is the same as your chin to earlobe
And my finger could trace the shape of your lips
From memory alone.
When my eyes
Settle upon your face
My hard heart beat
Hits slow motion
And stops -
Everything runs through my mind
But I think nothing at all
Reach out.
Kiss.
Jun 21, 2011
Jun 21, 2011 at 6:25 PM UTC
Moored to the same ring:
The hour, the darkness and I,
Our compasses hooded like falcons.
Now the memory of you comes aching in
With a wash of broken bits which never left port
In which once we planned voyages,
They come knocking like hearts asking:
What departures on this tide?
Breath of land, warm breath,
You tighten the cold around the navel,
Though all shores but the first have been foreign,
And the first was not home until left behind.
Our choice is ours but we have not made it,
Containing as it does, our destination
Circled with loss as with coral, and
A destination only until attained.
I have left you my hope to remember me by,
Though now there is little resemblance.
At this moment I could believe in no change,
The mast perpetually
Vacillating between the same constellations,
The night never withdrawing its dark virtue
>From the harbor shaped as a heart,
The sea pulsing as a heart,
The sky vaulted as a heart,
Where I know the light will shatter like a cry
Above a discovery:
"Emptiness.
Emptiness! Look!"
Look. This is the morning.
8.4k
In the supermarket airport
There are arrivals every day.
The departures in your trolley
Come to you from far away.
Those brightly coloured vegetables
Have sat around for days
In what we’re told are
such hygienic backroom bays.
They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves!
Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves.
Here every carrot is straight and clean
And every lettuce crisply curled
Then gassed in plastic packets
That are filling up our world!
Take a glance inside your trolley
And if what I say is true
Then I guarantee the food within
Has seen more of the world than you.
Like the picture on the packet
Of your frozen ready meal
The colour of this far flown food is great
The taste experience, surreal.
Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins
We should dye brown, to match their taste
Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour-
What a waste!
A plate of vibrant promising hue
Can taste of packaging and glue.
The supermarket tells you you’re in clover
But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover.
Your supermarket says that it is catering for you
But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true?
If you don’t then there is something you can do.
At the supermarket airport
All the money’s in departures
So put that trolley back
And just depart.
If you're wanting to be vocal
Then shop seasonal and local
And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
What are fingertips but pulses and pauses?
A spinal sigh---a cradle to all existence?
The punchline of all sensory implications,
the culmination of our tangles and departures?
All flesh is ephemeral, soft to shards in hours;
Touch is but a ****** tendril in memoriam for desire.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
coloring inside the lines is impossibly bleak,
with a hissing noise
atomic locomotive
rounds the bend,
extrasensory perception is not
a mindless gift,
it's a train station in the clouds,
tracking all my starting points to you,
nothing in the middle,
nothing at the end.
you leave in opera
with secrets and grievances
under the radar,
and your ready-made
wings catch in the power lines,
you're coiling like smoke
in the arches of my cathedral,
a sense of elegant decay
while sweeping up the debris,
committing arson
with the paraffin of my temporal lobe.
yesterday's fairground waltzes,
ghosted lullabies,
and woodland hymnals,
set in a context not of
resolution and closure,
but of contradiction and assimilation,
break the bond,
away they float on purveyor belts,
one too many molecules,
one too many departures,
always on the surface of everything,
nothing in the middle,
nothing at the end.
Feb 16, 2023
Feb 16, 2023 at 7:27 AM UTC
Of all my misnomers,
Mistooks of arrogance,
To think I could career careen
A life
in poetry,
Extra pressure of the
Broadest of a narrowing sujet,
the scripting of poesy
on the restricted topical
of only love poetry
Must have been punch love drunk,
When that notion crazy stung
My cerebal,
Gored discor-ed cortex,
Probably just another
Post a Loving,
dreaming scheming moment,
Or reading a Shakespeare sonnet,
Or
Midst the long lonely pauses
somewhere,
*(S)under the rainbow,
tween teener and geezer,
and
Everything in between*
made myself a poet of a restricted diet
not "eating " for days at a time
for love comes and goes,
frequent departures much more easygoing & common,
than regularly scheduled arrivals,
easy go, not so easy come,
what was I thinking of?
what a she-muk,
talking about cutting your nose off
to spite your face,
Jul 20, 2025
Jul 20, 2025 at 8:13 AM UTC
Like a plane in the
fog
looking for a place to
land
Like a man in a
homeless shelter listening for the rapture
A pelican on a pier
eyeing his next meal
the last apple on a
tree all ready
to fall
Remember I started with blue
skies in front of me
I studied my flight plan well
I knew I'd be landing
I knew for sure
it wasn't going to be hell
I always tried to do so well,
focusing in on innocence
when ever I was able to
But there are failures of compass
The phantom captain takes
a nap
The instruments may keep on
saying you're right on track
But
the only trust I have is
in the Northern Star
and in Mars high
in the sky.
It seems impossible
to be so lost
Like a plane in the
fog
looking for somewhere
to land.
Like a woman working tables
until two a.m.
Her fitness app keeps saying
a hundred years this shift
The fuel is evaporating
The miles to go before zero
keeps hopping
Like a whale without a culture
no one to talk to
The sky is a 300 mile high
air ocean
I thought I was free
to get from here to there
Like a window with a view
of a brick wall
Phoenix in the summer
A tsunami on dry land
A river without a name
A cougar and no game
Like a lover whose left
and no way to find their name
So many aspects of this life
Departures and arrivals
a one way ticket
There is a great darkness
out in the distance
I know it's getting closer
but
I keep on drifting
Like a plane in the fog
looking for a place to land.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 1:48 PM UTC
"Have you forgotten your ticket... or your luggage?"
Because I wish you did.
I wish we both Had forgotten everything behind, included clothes,
and this bench was a bed, a small bed, so you would have to sleep on my chest.
Tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow will be another day without check in, without gates, without running, without reading books,
without delays, without waiting queues, without sweat, without planes landing, without the morbid wishes for a plane to crash, without escalatores everywhere, without you.
How I hate airports... How I love airports.
******* Airports... full of their welcome laughs and goodbye tears, their happy endings and melodramatics departures.
The sad concept of living it's all condensed in this place. You are never happy with what you got till you are sad for what you lost.
But I was happy with you. I was happy at the Dublin Airport.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
Heatwave.
Dust whirling,
after mobile departures,
in the decadence
of our innumerous crows'-feet.
The sweat of humidity
dropping on neutrally carpeted floors.
Beer lubricating
many a rusty throat
as human optimism
and pessimism
make friends with each other
in a warlike fashion.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 7:20 AM UTC
of innocent and
illicit meetings,
of scalding coffee
and **** cider,
of October air
and goosebumps,
of piercing stares
and demure blushes,
of nervous laughter
and bright eyed smiles,
of beautiful stupidity
and exquisite risk taking,
of sweet shyness
and hesitant touches,
of passionate giving
and exhausted joy,
of shared secrets
and utter honesty,
of motorcycle rides
and smiling skulls,
of early morning coffee
and late night magic tricks,
of story telling
and musical laughter,
of leopard spots
and three quick kisses,
of secret meetings
and getting caught,
of forbidden words
and transparent hearts,
of hands wiping
away escaped tears,
of sad departures
and naked good byes,
of miles and miles
of never ending distance,
of long awaited phone calls
and lengthy emails,
of sleepless nights
and lonely days,
of miles and miles
that separate,
of silence,
of war,
of long awaited contact,
of letters,
of wounds,
of silence,
of deafening silence,
of love
of heart ache.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
the attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
poem
is a strange animal
with lines
monosyllabically
short
and then
perilously freakishly faulknerically
long
but not to worry
the trick is to ***** around
with the readers' heads a bit
let them wonder
what's going on
get them used to
obnoxious departures
sudden jolts
of expression
devious detours into
obscenity, indecency
these are the
tourette's moments
of a poet's creative life:
a move to keep those with the
attention span of an infant gnat
awake alive responsive
some may expect poetry
to take them down
safe bland routes:
a snowfall enhanced by red robins
perched on a rustic fence
a lake with canoeing lovers cooing
in a shimmering moment
heartfelt elegies
quaint quatrains
hip haikus
but can these images
really keep you entranced?
well, can they?
it isn't like i didn't warn you
or the horse you rode in on
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
I see faces and flowers
on loose pages—
it smiles at me from
a crumpled paper, addressed
to the fire, its embers were
keeping it ablaze.
How happy it was to paint the
room blue in the middle of summer,
dancing through the sound of the creaks
under my footsteps— everything is just right.
How treacherous it was, _a wistful memory_
they were remnants of unsettled stories
and unforgiven departures; I stood
on a shipwreck
where everything is a lost.
the uncertainty would be tall
and I am more will for the fall,
are these things crosses your mind?
I wouldn't bear crossing out your name.
This is how we paint room blue; creeping
on the cracks of the floor, memorizing your
gaits as I follow your traces.
Mar 23, 2022
Mar 23, 2022 at 3:17 AM UTC
Catch the motes of dust in light
To feel the threads of time suspend,
In serenade of life’s allure
Where precious moments never end.
Silver tears run down the cheek
In swift departures curled embrace,
Poingnancy for moments few
Of entwined limbs and whiskered face.
Separations loneliness
In gnawing of the very soul,
The wish for time to dissipate
To make the separate halves a whole.
Anticipation’s rawness now
Throws arrowed light to early shroud,
The eagerness to touch and kiss
Brings clear blue sky to morning cloud.
Rationalize the wonderment
Of slender fingers through your hair,
In fantasy of sheer delight
Her silhouette reflected there.
Hold the tantalizing heat
Of tender fires of passion bound
In throngs of longing, deeply felt,
Within the belly’s tufted mound
Exhaustion in the tangled sheet
As bands of sunlight kiss your hair,
Gently now, in drifted sleep
And gales of pleasure fill the air.
Catch the motes of dust in light
To feel the threads of time suspend
In serenade of life’s allure
Where precious moments never end.
Marshalg
Victoria Park tunnel
Auckland
24 July 2010
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 12:27 PM UTC
Every time
I start anew,
or decide
to leave,
without fail I arrive
at a new beginning.
Every start
is an end-
of something.
Each arrival,
culminates in a departure,
fallen in to the cycle of
'samsara'
vagrant mind, plays
creates illusions;
ends and beginnings.
When the karma wheel completes its circles,
without thinking, consciousness merges with
the ocean of eternal being
arrivals and departures mean nothing,
If
consciousness is still and unmoving, in the point between
birth and death.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
My life is made up of seconds
And they're ticking away.
At this very moment
I grow older
And memories are lost.
As noon turns to night,
And night turns to day
Images are blurred.
White noise,
Turning into silence.
Prolonged exposure to life,
The illusion of time takes over.
Summer falls and winter rises,
Identity lost,
Yourself just out of reach.
Arrivals and departures,
Of the shadow children.
The door shuts,
And the pendulum
Slowly stops swinging.
Everything comes and goes,
And everything changes.
On a long enough time line
The survival rate of everyone
Drops to zero.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
It all led up to this moment,
The dedication we casted our ambitions in,
The triumphs we rooted our adversities in,
It brought us to the next chapter of our lives,
And for you I'm forever grateful to,
Thanks for joining me on my journey.
The California dream is what we were living,
From the adventurous summer splendor,
To the heartfelt bittersweet departures,
Those unified celebratory cheers,
It was summer 21' of unprecedented affection,
Onto the next phase of life we go where unknown possibilities lie dormant,
Here's to the discoveries to come,
The gratitude to bestow,
& memories we'll create.
Jul 18, 2021
Jul 18, 2021 at 8:20 PM UTC
The air is damp and fresh,
the scent of new rain perfumes all that surrounds me
and thin mist lingers in the atmosphere.
It caresses my face when I walk through it's path,
a simple, happy path,
like moth's wings on silk, and it no longer stings.
A large oak tree stands tall and mighty, a magnificent display of solidarity -
but not imposing.
It is kind and bare and humble,
and I see that we are both stripped in some way, raw and defrocked.
I touch the last trace of green it possesses,
the last bit of hope and the last reminder that things come back
and that things move forward,
soft moss under the pads of my fingertips, soaked and sponge like,
and just there - clean and true.
I turn up my collar against the wind and tighten the wrap of my coat around me,
still clinging,
but at least I'm shielding myself from the cold.
I'm still allowed to cling just a little, I think. Sometimes we need to cling -
to help us let go.
And anyway, I know that change has arrived at last, no matter how small it is,
because although the only embrace I receive here, aside from the fabric of my coat, is the bitter cold,
I am not bitter.
And this chill does nothing but bring peace,
and somehow warm my heart this time instead of freezing it.
A ruby under the wet russet leaves
is what I see through the remnants of the rain.
Peel away the outer layers so that I can remember what is beautiful.
These colours do not look like blood anymore;
they're a sunset: fading but with a guaranteed return.
Beginnings, endings, departures and returns -
that is an existence.
But a life
is when we look back with both longing and acceptance,
to never forget but never dwell too long
on what has been.
Sweetness, bitterness, sourness:
a weary traveler making his way along a path
with Autumn meadow on one side: tranquility and rest,
and Autumn meadow on the other: Summer is ended and so are you.
I know which side I'm ready to seek now.
For what is taken in Autumn,
is also returned.
And the evidence is in your being on this side of the path with me.
I know - because I see the good things now.
I see only the beautiful colours and the chestnuts and the mercifully short days.
Yes. This Autumn will be different.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
premier you've smacked
me in the face
my train ran late
yet again
what's your minister
and his departmental head
doing about this?
not much I wager
all my other commuter friends
are at wits end
not happy
nor will they be anytime soon
get the trains running on time
or you'll end up like an old rail line
piled high on a scrap heap
and forgotten
what's your vision?
what's your scheme for rail?
rail years ago ran reasonably well
now there's me getting sentimental
so much for innovation and technology
for the rail system
not much improvement yet
or on the distant horizon
I deserve and demand much better
none of this second rate stuff
I've had enough
make good my lot
what have I got so far?
dollars unwisely spent
on a parlous rail system
I used to enjoy my daily train trip
so too my fellow train travelers
we say this in numbers
numbers count
premier know one know this better than you
numbers stack up...
stop griping me
send a train to me
departures and returns on time
be prompt never late...
is the old adages
now this verse is written especially for you
you are my mate at least for now
in the future that may well change
I've been know to change trains
if circumstances dictate
I could well be writing this verse
for the alternative premier
I'm sure you know what I'm driving at...
You know...good rail policy
get cracking
get smart
allay this persistent pain in my neck
late trains, late trains, late trains
I vote for a well run rail network
yes every time
not for a premier
dragging the line
that's not a good story
in the media
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
Let me introduce him.
half smile and half manipulation
He will take you out to fancy dinners
and then pinch your inner thigh under the table
He will sweep you off your feet
but forget to grab you shoes
Because you see
he doesn't want you to stand on your own
Like an air traffic controller
He is dictating your landings and departures
But all you want is a departure
Warmer skies
And a healthier landing
But he keeps you
Firmly planted on the ground
And then He bribes you with affection
and later handles you with his tongue
But as his hands cover your mouth
And you feel muffled by his presence
you lose yourself
You used to be a rainbow
You used to be seen only in technicolor
Now you're wearing black
submitting to his obsession
your simple lies turn him into a monster
and you're quivering like a child
Scared to put a toe down
Because his anger lurks beneath the bed
holding the blanket close around your neck
You beg for his forgiveness
He calls you his princess
and builds you a tower
But girl it doesn't matter how long you grow your hair
He will find a way to criticize it anyway
And you're bound to pay
I can't satisfy his anger
He hides behind it
Jabbing your sides with little suggestions
That dress is to short
That's a lot of skin
Excuse me ************
Who's body am I in?
And I don't need a fairy tale
What's it to ya anyway
I'm just a bird with a broken wing
You see I used to have two
One for luck
And the other for navigation
So why is leaving him resound with hesitation
And somedays I dream of a different life
One that's filled with witty repartee
And symphonies
Cellos play sweet melodies
And I take my two wings and fly between the notes
And I float
Catching air
I'm up there
But he takes his water hose and shoots me down
Because he only likes me wet and vulnerable
I think he is catching on
So I turn into sand
And taking a fistful he squeezes
Jesus
I'm falling through the cracks of his insecurities
And I find myself there
And I dust myself off
And fly
That's goodbye.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
Our hands rise
and the street leaps.
Our eyes lower,
the heavens collapse.
From our unspoken pain,
a tulip tree grows
mysteriously behind us.
From our cherished wishes,
a star rises
just beyond our reach.
Do you hear the bullets
whizzing around our heads
guarding our kisses?
The sweetness
of your glance
never ends.
No birds fly south
from your eyes;
no avalanches slide
from your *******
In the paradise
of your sight
the sun never sets.
These are your lips
I return to your neck.
Your blood
burns in my heart.
Everything remains.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 7:28 AM UTC
looking up looks good on you,
you weren’t of this world,
your heart was beyond the realms of reason,
a ray of sunshine returns to its source today,
continuing to shower her light on life as she did for 84 years.
Looking up looks good on you,
you make mortality beautiful with such celestial hues,
bringing peace to the plants you tended,
solace to the animals you fed,
and warmth to the hearts you touched.
looking up looks good on you.
Watching her as the last breath had already left her grasp… to see a light cease… was a conflicted reality. She was there — but gone. Finally freed from the cycle of samsara. Touching her face, seeing the color wash away the pains of yesterday, and feeling her body chill to a gruesome cold… it was in that moment I realized she won’t complain i’m cold anymore. She will warm and light up the sky with her smiles now.
Mortality is but a fickle yet omnipresent reminder to cherish each moment as it scatters past our horizons. It is but a gentle reminder to hold onto hugs a minute longer, savor a conversation a sentence deeper, and sit in the sunshine till dusk greets our departures. It is in the everyday we remain rooted in the reality of what lies hidden in the inevitable. Thus, in the moments mortality beacons at our doorstep — sending the gruesome chill of conclusion up your spine — cherish the warmth that radiates within your waking breath. It is in the inhale and exhale we seldom forget the gift of today that is bestowed on our conscious.
The ability to create, to debate, to deliberate on the topics that itch our fascination lies within mere moments of the now. She taught us to immerse ourselves in the ravishing splendor that life is because the inevitable looms above us all. Such a kindred spirit was she, a woman with a heart of gold. A soul that radiated in a light blind to the common eye. She held onto a glow that constellations graced — a burning light in of herself.
looking up looks good on you.
Dec 1, 2023
Dec 1, 2023 at 10:37 PM UTC
the world keeps walking ahead,
and i’m still at the platform,
watching trains pull away
with everyone whom i thought
would wait for me.
the announcements echo names
that are never mine,
and the doors always close
a second too soon—
as if the universe decided
i was meant to stand
in the silence
between departures.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 12:06 PM UTC